You Can't Escape The Night
by InfiniteMelody
Summary: "I cannot run from him, and I already know that hiding is useless. If there is one thing that this whole ordeal has taught me, it's this; You can't run. You can't hide. You can't escape The Night." Sherlock/OC
1. Virtue Stealing Luminous Fairy Men

**_Author's Note: So, this is my first Sherlock Holmes fanfiction and I hope that it turns out as good as it sounded in my head. This story takes place sometime after GOS. Feed back would be greatly appreciated, and I apologize in advance if Sherlock seems a bit OOC. Thanks for reading! _**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, solely my own OC's._**

_My throat burns, and every breath I take fuels the flames in my lungs. I lost feeling in my legs a couple of blocks ago, but my arms ache as I pump them furiously. A cramp in my ribs is almost enough to have me doubled over. I need to rest. I need some water. I need help. But fueled by adrenaline, I push on, putting as much distance between myself and him as possible._

_I don't know where I am. I can't remember how I got here or how long I've been here. Its dark, cold and wet. The sound of my feet against the cobblestone ground seem to be getting slower in tempo, and I can hear those of Him behind me getting closer. No. Not now, I cannot slow down now. But I am. I am slowing down, and in turn, speeding towards my death. I cannot run from him, and I already know that hiding is useless. If there is one thing that this whole ordeal has taught me, it's this; You can't run. You can't hide. You can't escape The Night._

It was with a jolt that Henriette Colt awoke, in cold sweat and shivers. She breathed heavily, struggling to catch her breath. Just another nightmare, she assured herself. It had been the third one that week. After a minute or so of trying to decrease the pace of her breathing, her erratically beating heart slowed to a somewhat normal pace. Calmed down, she rolled over in her bed restlessly, and peered about her bedroom. What time was it? Curtains were draped across her window, allowing not the slightest amount of sunlight into her dark room. With a frustrated groan, she rolled, or more so fell, out of her bed. The hardwood floor was colder than expected, and she cringed as her feet touched down. In nothing but a nightgown, she padded across the room, shivering as a cool draft swept through the room. She knew she should have taken Jack up on the offer to fix the insulation in there. But this was one of the last original, untouched rooms in the house, and there was nothing Henriette loved more than old things. The girl pulled apart the heavy, velvet curtains and winced as her eyes were met with the blinding, midday sunlight. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but finally she pried open her eyelids. It was later than she expected, noon at the least.

A fresh layer of egg, white snow blanketed the grounds, sparkling and glittering under the bright sun's rays. The crescent shaped, cobblestone drive, once an impressive collage of greys, beiges, and even the slightest hues of violet, was deemed dangerous as it was covered in a slick coat of ice. In the centre of the front lawn, just by the bend of the curved drive, stood a beautiful, granite fountain. It too, looked magical, glossy with ice, and the smallest layer of snow dusted along the top. It was a beautiful day, gone was the overcast sky of the past week, replaced with a blue, sunny winter's sky.

As she admired the oh so familiar view of her front yard, a violent shiver shuddered through her body. A fresh round of goosebumps rose along her arms and she rubbed them in an attempt to ward off the chill. Looking down, she realized exactly what the source of the cool draft was. Ajar, just an inch or so, was her window. She hadn't even noticed that it was open. With one arm, she absentmindedly pulled the window pane closed and latched it as she usually left it.

"Strange..." She muttered under her breath. She could have sworn that it was closed when she went to went to bed the evening previous.

"What's strange?" A nasally and distinctly french voice asked from behind her. Who knocks these days anyway? With an exasperated sigh, she turned away from the window and faced the voice that could only belong to Madame Marie Colt, her mother.

"Did you open the window?" Henriette asked, gesturing over her shoulder to the now closed window. Her mother, a tall woman with grey streaked, black hair, wound into her signature high, tight wound bun, moved from her stance in the doorway over to an oak wardrobe on the other side of the room.

"No dear, why?" Madame Colt asked as she shuffled through a rather impressive collection of dresses, the metal hangers making a series of _clicks_ as they collided with each other.

"Because I suspected that perhaps, a luminous fairy man with the intent of stealing my virtue, may have attempted to enter my room through said window. Why do you think, Mother?" She sneered. She hadn't forgotten her mother's outburst about her table manners at supper last night, and in front of Jack of all people!

"Ettie, don't. Sarcasm isn't very becoming of you." Her mother droned on, still rummaging through the dresses. Henriette rolled her eyes defiantly and smoothed out her bed covers. Her mother was right. Or at least she used to be. Henriette wasn't always this way. There was a time when she wasn't sarcastic. A time when she could sleep without the door locked. A time when she wasn't consumed with fear in her every idle hour. Before, she could rely on music to get her through each day, but now, not even music could numb the pain.

"Ah, here we are! This will be perfect." Ettie turned to face her smiling mother. It appeared that she had finally picked an outfit for Henriette.

"Mum, I am not wearing that." She objected, staring at the dress with mild disgust. Looking slightly offended, her mother peered down at the dress and pinched a bit of the material, velvet Henriette assumed, between her long fingers.

"What's wrong with it?" Mother questioned, appalled almost. Ettie cocked her head to the side, assessing the garment. It wasn't all that bad really. Made of black velvet that shimmered and shined as it caught the sunlight, black, intricate beading created lacey, flowery designs. It was a floor length gown, the sleeves made of fine lace, raven black just like the rest of it. Overall it would be a beautiful number...for a funeral.

"Who died?" Ettie asked, well aware of her mother's likely response. Lo and behold, her mother fixed her with a deadly glare, but put the gown back on the hanger and into the wardrobe. Ettie stubbornly turned back to the window and traced a pale finger along a crack in the glass.

"Ettie..."

"Mum, I'm just saying, this 'party' is supposed to celebrate the fact that I'm not dead. Something a little more lively, if you would please," she finished, with an exasperated sigh for effect.

Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of red caught her attention. She turned on one heel and noticed the corner of a particularly bold red garment. A piece of the dress, the skirt she assumed, poked out of the dark wardrobe. Ettie made her way over to her mother, who was shuffling through the wide variety of clothes once again, and reached in. Her hand found what she was looking for, a fine silk material, and withdrew her arm, the red gown in her clutch.

It was beautiful. That was definitely the dress. It was made of the smoothest, finest silk, deep crimson in colour. A rather full skirt reached the ground, and the sleeves were short, probably just sitting off the edges of her shoulders when Ettie would put it on. Pretty indeed.

"I wore that dress on the night of mine and your father's engagement," The older woman cooed, reminiscing in the memories of her youth.

"This should work." Ettie stated, clutching the garment to her chest. Her mother nodded in agreement and took the gown from her hands, laying it down on the bed for later that evening.

"Right, now get dressed and meet us in the dining room for tea. There are some matters needing discussed," Madame Colt announced, already making her way across the room to the door.

"Will do." Ettie answered as the door closed with a click. She looked once more at the window, admiring the intricate patterns of frost around the edges, before diving back into the wardrobe.

Henriette choked on her tea and winced as a hot mouthful landed in her lap. She took a moment to be grateful of her decision to ditch the white dress she'd originally hoped to wear for the routine luncheon. Good choice, good choice. "You've invited who?" She coughed, dabbing at her deep blue skirt with a cloth serviette.

"Mr. Holmes ," Madame Colt answered dully, handing her empty teacup and saucer to a waiting maid. The maid, a young girl perhaps no older than sixteen, took them and placed them on a silver tray. Ettie eyed the apron clad girl thoughtfully as a familiar cold sensation froze her stomach. The girl's dark eyes, almost black in colour, met Ettie's for a millisecond, then flickered away. As the servant girl left the dining room, Ettie shook off the odd feeling and stared down into her cup. Paranoia. That's what the doctor had said. It was only expected of her to experience such symptoms after all that she'd been through.

"Why?" She looked at her mother wide eyed, not entirely sure whether her ears were deceiving her.

"As a thank you of course! The man saved your life Henriette, surely you remember," Madame Colt reprimanded, folding her hands in her lap and looking at her daughter sternly.

"Of course I remember Mother, I just don't see why you had to invite him."

Madame Colt sighed and braced herself for her daughter's ridiculous tirade.

"I mean, couldn't you have sent him, I don't know, a 'Thank You' card or something?!"

"Henriette Geneviève-Marie Colt," Ettie's rant was cut short as she recognised the harsh tone of her mother's voice. Madame Colt's glare, the kind that could send the whole Spanish armada into retreat and strike fear into the hearts of the most ruthless, was now turned on Ettie and she couldn't help but shrink under her mother's gaze. "It is called being polite."

"It is called being excessive," Ettie grumbled under her breath, stirring her now cold tea with a spoon. For a moment, the only sound was that of the silver clacking against porcelain, until Madame Colt released a defeated sigh and said, "I don't see why it is such a big deal, Ettie."

"Mum it's...it's...embarassing."

"How so?"

"I don't know, it just is."

At the sound of the chair scraping against the floor, Ettie's stirring ceased and she looked up at her tall mother.

"Whether you agree with it or not, Sherlock Holmes will be attending this evening's dinner party, and as will you," she said, her voice indicating that such matters were no longer up to discussion. As the woman made her way around the long table and towards the heavy oak doors, Ettie called, "I am an adult Mother."

"Then start acting like one." And on that last note, Madame Colt disappeared from Ettie's sight, the sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood floor fading as she made her way through the corridor beyond.

Grumbling a string of exceptionally unladylike, and rather creative, curses under her breath, Ettie tossed her spoon onto the table. It fell with a muffled _clunk,_ and was retrieved by another maid, along with her cold cup of tea and saucer. As the maid disappeared, dishes and utensils clanging against each other on the serving tray, and Ettie became truly alone in the dining room, she slouched back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

Maybe he wouldn't show up. Maybe the detective would have another engagement that would result in his inattendance. Maybe he'd get hit by a carriage or drown in the Thames. No, that was too far. Nonetheless, Ettie found her hopes and wishful thinking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes to not show up turn into prayers.

_Damn. It._


	2. The Party Guest from Hell

It was over the top. Excessive. Gaudy even. And yet, the preparations Madame Colt had made for the dinner party were strangely... impressive.

The finest china (the gold trimmed set passed down from Mémère Fontaine) was placed on the satin table cloth immaculately and the crystal wine glasses sparkled under the light of the dining room chandelier. Soft melodies and harmonies floated about the room from a string quartet in the furthermost corner. The table appeared to have been set for an odd twenty or some people and Ettie couldn't help but feel as though this was supposed to be a royal feast as opposed to a mere dinner party.

_That's Mum for you, _Ettie thought to herself.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the guests trickled in and the dining room was full of chatter. The violin music could just barely be heard over the conversation. Soon, Ettie's sister, Sylvie, and her husband Leonard were seated on her left and she found herself in the midst of a heated debate.

"It's all a trick. That's all, just a simple parlor trick," Leonard insisted. It appeared that the methods of the "Party Guest from Hell", as Ettie had taken to call him in her head, were being questioned.

"So you're saying that Ettie's kidnapping, and his tracking her down, has all been a trick?" Sylvie demanded, playing the guilt card. Ettie rolled her eyes, but nonetheless followed the argument eagerly. It wasn't often that she witnessed the "Match Made in Heaven" argue, and needless to say, she was enjoying it.

"No, no! I'm not saying that. I'm talking about the thing he does when he looks at your briefcase and tells you your grandmum's life story. I mean honestly, how can you correctly assume so much from such little things, like the scratches on your pocket watch? It's absurd!"

"Actually, you'll find that the smallest details often prove to be the most revealing."

Ettie jumped out of her seat, startled to hear the rumbling voice so near, and shrieked, "Jesus!"

Across from her, one of her mother's unfamiliar guests scowled, a disapproving frown clouding the plump, woman's face. Ettie shrank under the gaze of the older woman and trained her wide eyes on her unexpected neighbor.

To her right sat a decidedly rugged looking man, a layer of gruff stubble shadowing his jaw and what appeared to be a fading bruise ghosting his cheekbone. A full head of unruly, black curls seemed to be just barely tamed, combed back in a seemingly half hearted effort. And yet, a pair of warm, wise brown eyes offered a stark contrast to his distinctly listless features. And she was intrigued.

"No, it's Holmes actually," The man offered smartly, a smug smirk playing at his lips, "and don't worry, your grandmother is quite well," he directed to Leonard.

Henriette frowned. _No..._

"Holmes? _Sherlock Holmes?_" Sylvie piped up from Ettie's other side. Her sister leaned forwards in her chair, her blond waves serving as a curtain separating the three of them from everyone else along their side of the table. Ettie sank back into her seat, observing the exchange with faint interest. Holmes inclined his head in affirmation and gave Ettie's sister a considering look.

"Sylvie Durmack," Her sister said in her "pleasant voice", a tone reserved for the highest standing members of society and college professors. Sherlock Holmes came close to neither. Sylvie reached across Ettie's lap and held her hand out, expecting the detective to take it politely. When he refused to do so, casting an aghast look at Sylvie's pale, spider-like hands, she jerkily retracted her arm. On the other side of her, Leonard was glaring. There was a thick air of awkwardness, and Ettie found herself trapped in the midst of it.

And then she came back to her right mind.

"Excuse me, Mr Holmes, but I was saving that seat," Ettie announced, her clear voice breaking through the tension. His brown eyes crinkled as he smirked once again and reached into his jacket. As he drew his hand back out, Ettie's eyes caught sight of the ivory envelope clutched in his hand.

"Yes, saving it for your fiancé, I presume?" Ettie nodded in approval before he continued. "And since he is unable to attend," Holmes gestured to the white envelope now placed beside Ettie's fork, "I saw fit to take his place." He finished with a smile, its radiance practically lighting up the whole room.

Ettie starred in confoundment. "How did you acquire this, exactly?" She asked, plucking the envelope off of the table and flipping it over in her hands. In scarlet ink, her name was scrawled along the front. The contrasting red against ivory reminded her somehow of blood against snow. _Oh the casual comparisons of an unsound mind..._

"I stole it from a stable boy in the kitchens."

Ettie's head whipped to the side and she raised her eyebrows in bewilderment. She couldn't tell if he was kidding. As she contemplated the likelihood of the statement, she scrunched her eyebrows. He arched one of his. It was all very frustrating.

"You stole it...from a stable boy?" Ettie parroted, shifting in her seat so that her knee was almost touching his.

"I believe that is what I said." adjusted his shirt sleeve and Ettie watched as his fingers rebuttoned the cuff. The pads of his fingers looked calloused. Musician's fingers?

Ettie lowered her voice, "And why, exactly, would you steal a letter from the stable boy?"

A mischievous grin crossed lips, and Ettie heard the flat, scrape as he brought his chair closer to hers. Leaning even closer to her, whispered, "You have thieves in your dining room," He nodded over to the servant girl who'd served Ettie's tea earlier in the day, and watched as she patted a just barely noticeable bulge in her apron, "Liars in your kitchen," A hooked thumb pointed back at the kitchen door behind them, just swinging shut. Ettie remembered him mentioning that he'd already been in the kitchen. "And a drunk in your stables." That would be the stable boy. "Now, why on Earth, would oneself see it fit to make sure that a lady received her message, when her staff is of such _stellar _service?"

Ettie floundered for some kind of witty response, but to no avail, so instead asked another question, "You said that my fiancé would be unable to attend." She plucked a knife off of the table and slid it into the letter, breaking the seal.

"I did."

Following the crisp _rip_ of the envelope giving way, Ettie turned the paper over in her hand and shook out what appeared to be a telegram. Her eyes scanned over it quickly, and heavy disappointment weighed in her stomach like a rock. was right. Jack couldn't come. Ettie reread the text once more through, soaking up the details like a sponge. An excuse illustrating an unexpected business trip to Cardiff and a promise to attend the upcoming, and in Ettie's case dreaded, annual Christmas ball Madam Colt hosted every year for as long as she could remember.

"Let me guess," quipped, holding up a hand to halt Ettie as she opened her mouth. "Business trip in...Bristol?"

"Cardiff actually," She snapped in reply, tucking the telegram back into its envelope, and sliding it under her plate. Crossing her arms over her chest, Ettie glared down at her plate, not caring in the slightest that she probably looked like a sulking child.

"That's it?"

Ettie looked up from her plate with a curious, "Hmm?"

blinked, putting as much attitude as you could into an involuntary bodily function. "No questions? No defense? No physical assault?" He questioned, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Ettie uncrossed her arms, placing her hands in her lap instead, and turned back to the man. Cocking her head to the side, she plastered on a polite smile and in her most sickly sweet voice replied, "Is that a request?"

"I suppose I could do without," he offered cheekily, and then proceeded to wave down a server.

Ettie rolled her eyes before setting her sights on her mother at the far end of the table. Madam Colt had just taken her seat, and it appeared that every other seat, excluding the empty place intended for Jack, was filled. After exchanging a few more polite smiles and compliments by the looks of it, Madam Colt arose from her chair with a silver spoon and wine glass. The gentle, yet commanding _tings_ of silver against crystal resonated through grand room, followed by an eery wake of dead silence.

"Welcome, welcome, friends. We are ever so grateful for your presence on this night," announced the familiar nasally voice. Ettie drew a hand through her curls and prepared herself for the oncoming, and inevitably embarrassing, speech.

"Two months today, our daughter was taken from us. Two months today, our hearts broke,"

Ettie felt the weight of the room's gaze on her, and ducked her head, hiding her grimace, all the while praying her mother would keep it short and sweet. She could feel their piercing gazes on her skin, and absentmindedly rubbed her arm to rid herself of unwelcome goosebumps.

"Two months today, we were lost," Madame Colt continued, her French tinged voice, strong and attention commanding, "and we still would be, if it weren't for Mr Holmes."

Ettie watched from behind a veil of her dark curls as nodded in acknowledgement and offered the room a small smile, but Ettie couldn't see any heart in it. Unseen by anyone else, she rolled her eyes and fidgeted with a silver spoon, twirling it in her fingers distractedly.

_Please be done. Please be done. Please be done._

"And so, I would like to make a toast," came the saving words from Madame Colt. Henriette released a sigh of relief.

"To the safe return of our beautiful daughter," Henriette looked up, taking that as her cue, "and the daring rescue by Mr Holmes !"

Henriette wasn't sure if she would call Mr Holmes' latest endeavor "daring", in fact the whole rescue part of the experience was rather mundane, but all the same she raised her glass in sync with the rest of the dining room. Ettie loved champagne, but at that moment she could have been drinking vinegar for all she cared. All she wanted was to be back in her chambers, plucking at her guitar or flipping through her mystery novels. But that would have to wait, because not a moment after the toast, she heard them.

The shattering of crystal. The gasps of shock. And then, the screams started.


End file.
